I can’t make it better.
It drives me crazy, but there’s nothing I can do. No concrete way I can help. No way for me to make it all go away.
I hug when in the same room, murmuring positive words, stroking hair and soothing furrowed brow, expressing my love. When on the phone, I still murmur, trying to make my voice convey that, were we in the same room, I would be hugging and stroking and soothing and expressing. It sounds corny, but I turn my voice into a verbal hug, hoping that it can be felt.
I hear the exhaustion and the frustration. I listen, make suggestions when appropriate, offer advice that I hope will be helpful, but try not to be a know-it-all. Because I don’t know it all. I wish I did.
But the advice and hugs and soothing doesn’t make it better. Not really. Not in a concrete, never-have-to-deal-with-this-bullshit-again way that I so desperately wish, so that this pain and anger and frustration are all things of the past, gray and hazy and gone.
The things I would so dearly love to do, to talk directly to the other people involved, make them see how stupid and immature and hurtful they’re being – I can’t do. It’s not my place. And I know, for various reasons, I wouldn’t be listened to. Because I’m involved only on the fringes – not directly.
So I can’t help.